


Soup

by elsewherewolf



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, implied father/son incest, sick!Herc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-24 16:05:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/941882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elsewherewolf/pseuds/elsewherewolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chuck takes care of a sick Herc.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soup

**Author's Note:**

> written for a prompt on pacificrimkink: I've seen prompts about Chuck being sick, but I'd love to see a fic in which Herc gets sick. Nothing serious, just a really bad case of the flu and he has to spend a few days in bed. He's as much of a pain in the ass patient as Chuck when he's not feeling well. Chuck still takes good care of him. He bitches at Herc and complains and calls him a useless old man, but he still makes him tea and brings him soup and keeps him company.

"Christ, you look terrible."

"Good morning to you too." Herc puts down the coffee he's not really drinking and watches Chuck fling himself onto their tattered old couch, patting the space next to him for Max to get up there too.

"Too much whiskey in the water, huh?" his son asks, amused by his suffering.

"I'm not hungover. Don't let the dog on the couch, Chuck." He shakes his head, pours the coffee away and moves towards the door, grabbing his jacket on the way. "We have a briefing in ten minutes, you coming?" He turns around to look at Chuck and stumbles, dizzy, stopping himself from falling by leaning heavily the other way instead.

"Hey, Dad. You alright there?" Rare concern edges Chuck's voice, and Herc decides he really must look like shit. He _feels_ like shit, so it stands to reason.

He blinks, trying to clear the double vision, and when he manages to open his eyes again, Chuck's right there, an arm under his.

"I can _manage_ , Chuck. Get the hell off me."

"Oh, screw you. You're burning up, and I'm putting you to bed. Don't argue with me, old man, you won't win."

Herc tries to shake Chuck off, but his whole body feels like it's encased in lead and honestly, he doesn't care enough about the briefing to fight. He lands on his bunk with a groan and rolls over, grumbling about Chuck's bedside manner.

"Not so fast." Chuck's hands are tugging his shirt free of his pants, and Herc bats uselessly at him because, really? Chuck? Now isn't the time. "For fuck's sake, Dad, keep bloody still."

"That's not what you said the other night," he slurs, another wave of dizziness forcing his eyes closed again.

\+ + + 

When he wakes up next, he's under the sheets, a couple of pillows behind him and Chuck's there, watching him carefully.

"Did Striker fall on me?" Because that's what it feels like.

"Yeah, Dad, you got kinda sassy so I got Striker to bodyslam your ass. You have the flu. You're on bedrest, no griping."

"Who's griping?" 

"Uh, you. The whole goddamn time until the fever broke." 

Herc's sure Chuck is exaggerating, but he just shrugs. Then sniffs the air. "Chuck, what did you do?"

"I made you soup. Don't look at me like that, it's perfectly edible."

Herc catches Chuck's glance at Max, and shakes his head. "That dog is not a good frame of reference. God, I almost die and you're trying to kill me again?"

"Don't be a drama queen, it's the flu. Open up."

Herc narrows his eyes at Chuck, who just smiles sweetly at him and keeps coming at him with the spoon.

"I'm serious, Dad. If you don't open your mouth, it's going in your lap, and _then_ you'll have problems."

"Yeah? So will you, boy. So will-" Herc takes the spoon in anyway, doesn't have a bloody choice, does he? And okay, he has to hand it to Chuck. The soup isn't that bad. He swallows, wanting to say something. Like thank you, maybe, or another one of the number of things they never tell one another. "You were right, it's edible."

"I was thinking," Chuck begins, and Herc tenses because there's a beginning that rarely ends well. "Maybe when everyone finally goes home and we're not needed any more and you're too old to fly anything, we could get a place somewhere with great surf, miles away from anyone else and I could..."

"Don't stop now."

"I guess I want to learn something else. Because you don't want to know how many chickens or saucepans I went through to get that soup right. Probably don't look in the kitchen for a while, either."

"And you have to wait until I'm flat on my back and helpless to ask me that?"

"God, Dad, I'm not asking you to marry me or anything. Forget it. Have some more soup."

Herc takes the spoonful of soup that's shoved into his mouth with good grace, watching Chuck's expression change again, starting to close off.

"You don't even know how to surf," he says, before Chuck can feed him another spoonful.

"Why are you such an arse about things? I love you Dad, but really, you're..."

Herc stares. He should say something, shouldn't he? Acknowledge this moment as history in the making? Instead all he can manage to say is, "I'll teach you." Which is _yes_ and _I'll give you whatever you need to be happy_ and _hell, I love you too._


End file.
